


trapped in a machine

by aestheticeighties



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Feels, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, F/M, Feels, Gore, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Smut, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aestheticeighties/pseuds/aestheticeighties
Summary: my version of what happened to bucky at the hands of HYDRA. the story of how he turned from bucky barnes to the winter soldier. includes multiple original characters, a fair amount of gore, and a LOT of angst. hope you enjoy!





	1. the fall (prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> this is just the prologue so sorry it's so short! i'm working on an actual chapter right now, so please bear with me:)

_ Falling. _

_ Falling. _

_ Falling. _

_ Steve’s outstretched hand is ripped away by the inevitable force of gravity dragging Bucky to the ground. The train shrinks, dissolving into the steely gray sky. He closes his eyes. The impact will come. Wind rips past his skin as he plummets between the narrowing walls of the mountains. All he can do is wait. Wait for the jagged ground to turn his bones to a pulp. _

_ The impact will come. _

_ There is a massive wrench, a ripping noise followed by a flood of agony across his left side. Red flashes across his vision. _

_ Everything goes black. _

 

_ The snow around him is red. Is he dead? Dying shouldn’t hurt this much. Someone is moving him. He can’t feel his arm. Vaguely, he sees blood gushing from just below his shoulder. It burns. The world fades back to black. _

 

_ He wakes up to see a cold face staring at him. He is being dragged through the snow by a man with a bayonet strapped across his back. Light glints off of the metal blade, mesmerizing his muddled mind. He gazes at the swaying glitter until he falls back asleep. He doesn’t think he’ll ever wake back up. _

 

_ He doesn’t wake back up. _


	2. half man, half machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky wakes up drugged and discovers what truly happens to prisoners in a HYDRA secret base. tw: lots of gore in this one

A massive thump on his chest jolts Bucky back into consciousness. Lights swim in front of his face, all moving colors that muddle together into a messy painting of an operation room. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, but everything else sounds as if it’s underwater. Someone is speaking to him, or speaking about him, and he can’t tell which one. Ever so slowly, the drifting lights coalesce into the form of a doctor hovering above him. The doctor has a surgical mask obscuring his face and seems to be adjusting a metal tool.

“Where-” Bucky begins to mumble. His lips are clumsy, too slow to form a sentence. His brain won’t let him remember what he was trying to say. The doctor nods at someone across the room. The lights are too bright and everything spins as he tries to see who else is there. More doctors. They multiply in his addled brain until everywhere he looks is the same surgical mask, the same metal saw that is now buzzing like a swarm of angry bees.

Someone’s hands are gripping his shoulder now, pinning him to the cold metal table. He tries to sit up, but finds himself immobilized. The world dips again, sending his vision dancing around his head. The buzzing gets louder as the saw gets closer. Somewhere, deep inside, he is terrified, but the oppressive fog in his mind quenches any emotion before it gets too close.

A smell like cooking meat wafts towards his nose, so out of place in such a sterile room. His eyes drift shut as the gentle vibrating of the table lulls him towards an easy sleep. But, before he can succumb, a biting twinge shocks his left bicep. He opens his eyes to peer over and sees one of the doctors holding the saw to his flesh.

They’re cutting off his arm.

He tries to pull away, but whatever drugs they pumped him full of has left him paralyzed. All he can do is watch as the saw cuts deeper and deeper, sending his blood pooling on the table and dripping on the floor. Where the saw touches, his skin bubbles and smokes, filling the room with the smell of burning flesh. It’s inescapable. Desperately, he tries to move, tries to shrink back from the faceless surgeon, but his muscles are frozen.

The saw cuts deeper. There is no pain, but he can’t look away. The serrated blade cuts back and forth, digging through skin and muscle before it finally hits bone. The noise is unbearable. Even the doctors wince as the grinding, screeching whine perforates the air. A fine dust floats up from the incision, accompanied by an even stronger burning smell than before.

Nausea rises up through his stomach. The lights begin to blend together as his brain attempts to block out the scene before him. A wave of dizziness washes over him, and for what seems like the hundredth time (a small mercy), he loses consciousness.

 

_ The wind whips past him, biting, tearing. The cold jagged metal under his hands is the only thing keeping him alive. The train curves, snow blowing in his face as his feet dangle over the edge of the abyss. _

_ “Bucky!” A Brooklyn accent, the cadences of home. Carried to his ears by the gust that is threatening to rip him off the train and into the void. His hands slip. _

_ Steve is climbing out of the train, frantically finding footholds out of the wrecked metal. There is feet between them, miles. His hands are numb. They slide further. _

_ “Hold on!” Steve shouts. He gains another foot, but it does nothing to breach the light years between them. Another step forwards. He is Bucky’s only hope. _

_ Bucky begins to shift over, swinging himself closer to his best friend. The rod keeping him attached groans slightly under his weight. Another gust of wind pushes him back. _

_ “Grab my hand!” Steve roars. There are tears in his eyes, but Bucky can’t tell if it’s from the cold or sadness. His leather-gloved hand is outstretched, trying so hard to reach him. _

_ Bucky reaches back. _

_ For a moment, they hang, suspended in time, fingertips nearly brushing. There is hope, or maybe desperation, illuminating Steve’s eyes. The gap has shrunk down to the air between their palms, to the last inch before Bucky is saved. _

_ And then he falls. _

_ The metal breaks, time restarts, and the biting wind accompanies him to the ground.  _

_ As he falls, his arm burns. Not from an ache, not from any discernible wound. His arm is on fire, lances of pain shooting through his shoulder and into his chest. He looks over to see his arm disintegrating. Starting at the fingertips and working its way up, his skin is turning to ash. Embers glitter under his skin as his arm burns out like a candle wick. As it reaches his shoulder, it hurts more and more, invisible lines of flame working under his skin to burn him alive from the inside out. His arm turns to dust, floating away into the air, unaffected by the roaring wind. _

_ The lines of fire reach his heart, and he screams. _

 

Bucky wakes up screaming. He isn’t falling, isn’t in the mountains watching the wind rip him into the jagged ravine. He is on the operating table, surrounded by more doctors than ever. The pain persists. His skin is lava, muscles acid that is eating him away. His throat burns and he can’t remember how long he’s been screaming. Whatever drugs he had been on before have left his system, left him to feel every ounce of pain the surgeons want to inflict on him.

He looks to his left, expecting to see a smoldering pile of ashes. Instead, he is greeted by a doctor wedging metal plates into his shoulder. The mess of silver is drenched in blood. The doctor is bent over, holding a sharp edge up to the last untouched part of Bucky’s shoulder.

“Please,” Bucky begs, voice hoarse. It is softer than a whisper. “Please.”

It’s the only word he can get out before the doctor leans forward.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the metal slides under his skin, cutting through muscle and sliding in between bones. He knows he must be screaming, but everything has ceased to exist outside of the feeling of his chest being split apart. The room disappears. The sound of metal scraping against bone and ripping muscle apart fills his ears. It goes on for minutes, or maybe years.

Centuries later, the movement stops. The pain abates. His shoulder still burns, still drips blood onto the already-soaked operating table, but the metal has stopped moving. The sound of his ragged breathing returns to his ears. Sweat mingles with tears on his face as the room reappears into his vision. 

The surgeons are standing in a circle around him, faces unreadable behind their blood-flecked masks. One holds a large prosthetic arm.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Bucky rasps. His mouth tastes of copper. He must have bitten his tongue earlier. The surgeon with the prosthetic moves towards him and he flinches. The sudden movement sends a wave of agony flooding through his shoulder as the metal plates in his shoulder shift under his skin. Leather straps have been wrapped around his waist, legs, and arms to keep him immobilized.  _ Arm. _ Not plural. Not anymore.

The surgeon leans over him, holding up the heavy metal prosthetic to his shoulder, and Bucky finally sees. The metal plates wedged in between his bones has become an external joint, ready for the bulky silver arm to be put in place. He braces for the pain, but the surgeon slides it in without a hitch. It clicks softly as it locks into place, laying outstretched and lifeless on the table. The doctors begin soldering the metal strips into place, opening panels to adjust wires, and testing each moving piece on the prosthetic. Bucky is helpless. He watches the process as if watching it happen to someone else. He floats above his body, emotionlessly observing the image of himself. He is pale, drenched in sweat and blood, and carries a look deep within his eyes that is utterly devoid of hope. The doctors are clustered around the metal arm, feverishly making adjustments to the joints. One of them takes another leather strap and folds it in half, then wedges it in Bucky’s mouth.

He snaps out of his trance, brow furrowing in confusion. The doctor rests his hand on Bucky’s drenched forehead.

“This will hurt,” he says in a thick German accent. “But it will be done soon.”

Bucky’s breath starts to become fast and heavy. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as the doctor picks up the soldering iron and moves it towards his shoulder. He holds it above the jagged edge where Bucky’s skin rests on top of the metal arm. And then he pushes down.

Out of all the pain Bucky has endured, this is by far the worst. The iron burns through his shoulder, sizzling and smoking. Skin and metal melt and burn, fusing together until there is no determining where one starts and the other ends. He screams, biting down on the leather strap that had been shoved into the corners of his mouth. The iron moves agonizingly slowly, fusing the arm to his chest inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. The heat travels through the metal under his skin, cooking the muscles in his chest, advancing towards his heart. The room, once again, fills with the smell of burnt skin. He screams until his voice is gone, and once it deserts him, he continues to scream. It is a hoarse, animalistic noise that knows no bounds, understands no mercy. He screams as the faceless surgeons transform him into half-man, half-machine, melt his skin until it is no longer recognizable.

Hours later, years later, millenia later, the surgeons turn off the soldering iron. They do not activate the arm. They do not undo the leather straps tying him down to the table. They do not take the band out of his mouth. Wordlessly, they lay down their tools and file out of the room. There is no more burning, no more stabbing, no more cutting, no more bleeding.

But still, he screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this was incredibly dark but also cathartic to write. i want to say that i hope you enjoyed it but that was pretty depressing so i don't know what to say... leave a comment telling me what you think it would mean a lot to me! i'm already working on the next chapter:)


	3. no one and nothing

At some point since the previous day, Bucky must have fallen asleep, because he now opens his eyes to find the room deserted. The same, piercingly bright light hovers over him, illuminating the operating table. Streaks have been pulled through his dried blood, almost like someone tried to wipe it away and gave up halfway through. Every muscle in his body screams with pain and his jaw aches from biting down so tightly on the leather strap that had been in his mouth. Slowly, he makes his stiff neck turn to look at the metal monstrosity attached to his shoulder.

The arm is outstretched in the same position, panels left open and wires unattached. But it’s the skin around the arm that leaves him stunned. Instead of a blackened, burnt mess, there is a smooth scar. It looks healed, like it was burnt years ago instead of only hours. The scar stretches across his chest, encircling the prosthetic joint with a thin line of pink skin.

“So, you are awake.” A voice with a thick German accent sounds from the door.

Bucky turns to look, neck pinching from the sudden movement. One of the doctors stands before him, wearing clean scrubs and no mask. His face is plain, with a soft stubble adorning the jawline. Mouse-brown eyes stare out of deep sockets. He is utterly unremarkable.

Bucky stares warily, not responding to the statement. The two men stare at each other, a heavy silence permeating the air.

The doctor sighs. “I am glad you have survived. Not many would make it through such a procedure. We did everything we could to save your life.”

Bucky continues to stare. He will not give this man an inch. He will not allow him a second of satisfaction. He will not respond.

The doctor seems to read this on his face. He turns and raps sharply on the door, two quick knocks that immediately unlock it. The door opens and two more doctors enter, one holding a clipboard and a pen. The doctor with a clipboard stands in the corner, looking at Bucky and furiously writing down notes. The surgeon who had previously spoken with Bucky approaches the arm.

He pulls a pair of pliers from the breast pocket on his white coat. With a look of deep concentration, he begins attaching wires and adjusting panels. Bucky watches silently, observing the mechanical precision with which he works. The doctor takes a mess of cords and cables and turns it into a work of art, a painting of his technological prowess. Every so often, two wires will cross and send a small shock through Bucky’s chest, but not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him of what lays within him.

After a few minutes of tinkering, the doctor steps back. He holds his hand out towards the doctor in the corner, who eagerly hands over the clipboard and pen. Using the pen, he pushes the fingers open and closed, testing every joint until he is satisfied. He picks up the arm, bends it at the shoulder, then the elbow, then the wrist. Everything must be working, because he puts his pen back in his pocket and backs away.

“Now, I would like you to raise your arm,” the doctor says, already scribbling down notes.

Bucky doesn’t move. “I don’t-” his voice is quieter than a whisper, hoarse and scratchy. “I don’t know how.”

“How do you move any of your limbs?” the doctor says curtly.

Bucky breathes in, then out. Tensing in preparation for the pain, he lifts the arm.

It whirrs softly as it raises up, moving smoothly and quickly, exactly in time to his thoughts. The plating shifts as it moves, adjusting to mimic the motions of a real arm. He rotates it in awe, feeling the gentle pull under his chest as its weight lifts off the table. The fingers bend in and out one at a time, their gentle flexibility indistinguishable from that of his other hand. There is no pain when he moves it, but he can feel the plating in his chest shifting under his skin.

“Incredible,” the doctor breathes. His pen is moving at the speed of light, desperately recording every movement that Bucky makes. “Can you move your wrist in a full rotation?”

Bucky is too entranced to question the order. He rolls the wrist in a circle, hearing the gentle clicks as it realligns the joint. The doctor lays a hand on the arm, observing how the metal shifts with every small motion. He exhales something in German, voice illustrating his amazement.

For a moment, Bucky is caught up by the miracle that is unfolding before him. But then he remembers the day before, remembers the soldering iron pressed to his flesh and the saw grinding through his bones. A pit of rage bubbles up in his stomach. He is no more than an experiment. This arm is not a gift, it’s a tether to these doctors and all that they stand for.

So, faster than he would have thought possible, he reaches out and grabs the doctor’s throat in his steel grip. He squeezes, tighter and tighter until the man’s eyes are bulging out of his head. Someone bursts into the room, but Bucky doesn’t care. He drinks in the look of shock on the man’s face as his body slowly sinks to the floor. People are yelling, and there is blood trickling from the doctor’s mouth and running in between the plates on the metal arm.

A violent prick on Bucky’s right shoulder makes him start. A large syringe is sticking out of his arm, plunger pressed as far down as it can go. Almost immediately, the world starts to blur around the edges and his muscles relax. The doctor collapses to the floor. A large shape appears in his vision, the vague image of a face looming in front of him.

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes,” a terrifyingly familiar voice says. Bucky squints, trying to force his unfocused eyes to work. There is a fog moving over his mind, muddying his thoughts and obscuring his senses. Just as the world fades away, his eyes finally allow him to see.

The wicked face of Arnim Zola smiles above him. His teeth turn to snakes as he smiles.

“It’s good to see you again.”

 

_“Come on, you’re kinda missing the point of a double date. We’re taking the girls dancing!” He playfully shoves Steve forwards, shaking him out of his stupor. Steve looks completely out of place in the army recruiting building, too small and too skinny and too sick to be accepted in._

_“You go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” Steve says, hands tucked in his pockets. He won’t meet Bucky’s eyes._

_Bucky sighs. “Are you really gonna do this again?”_

_Steve shrugs. “Well, it’s a fair, I’ll try my luck.”_

_“As who, Steve from Ohio?” Bucky retorts. “They’ll catch you. Or worse, they’ll actually take you.”_

_Steve takes a breath. “Look, I know you don’t think I can do this, but-”_

_“This isn’t a back alley, Steve, it’s war!” Bucky interrupts._

_“I know it’s a war,” Steve responds sarcastically._

_“Why are you so keen to fight?” Bucky asks. “There are so many more important jobs!”_ _  
_ _“What do you want me to do, Buck? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon?”_

_“Yes!” Bucky exclaims. “Why not?”_

_“I’m not going to sit in a factory all day!” Steve says. He fixes Bucky with his infuriatingly morally superior stare. “Bucky, come on. There are men laying down their lives. I have no right to do any less than them. That’s what you don’t understand. This isn’t about me.”_

_“Right.” Bucky nods, seeing straight through him. “‘Cause you got nothing to prove.”_

_Steve deflates a little. He drops his eyes, pushing his hands further into his pockets._

_“Hey, Sarge!” The girls are calling for him, hovering outside the recruiting station. “Are we going dancing?”_

_Bucky turns around, fixing a winning grin on his face. “Yes we are!” he says, watching the girls giggle together. He turns back to Steve, shaking his head. He looks around at the men signing up to fight, all strong, able-bodied young men chomping at the bit to go to war. And then he looks at Steve, who stands a head shorter than him even in his best shoes. Steve, who weighs half as much as him soaking wet. Steve, who is just as ready to lay his life on the line as any other man in there._

_“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” Bucky warns him, already walking away. He just starts to turn when he hears Steve snort._

_“How can I?” Steve says. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”_

_Bucky almost laughs, walking back to Steve. “You’re a punk.” He pulls Steve into a hug, silently begging him not to do what he’s already planning._

_“Jerk,” Steve grumbles, but he hugs Bucky back. The two embrace for only a moment before Bucky steps away. Steve clears his throat. “Be careful.”_

_Bucky walks away, towards the girls waiting impatiently to go dancing. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away before they can get any further._

_“Hey!” Steve calls, waiting for Bucky to turn back around. “Don’t win the war ‘till I get there!”_

_Bucky smiles. He salutes dramatically, but the gesture makes a smile prick the corner of Steve’s mouth. They stand there for a moment, neither wanting to leave, but both being pulled in opposite directions. At the same time, they both turn away._

_“Come on, girls!” Bucky calls out. They giggle again. “They’re playing our song.” He walks away from the recruiting station with a beautiful girl on each arm, but every muscle in his body yearns to turn back around. He should have tried harder to get Steve to stay. He shouldn’t have walked away. There was still time to go back and drag Steve away, force him to leave the recruiters behind. It was too dangerous. Steve was going to get himself killed._

_But, despite his racing thoughts and pounding heart, he kept walking._

_They were playing his song._

 

Bucky opens his eyes to find himself surrounded by a white fog. He is standing before a small wooden table, the only identifying landmark he can see. He is clad in a simple white tunic with gray pants, barefoot on the soft floor. The air is neither warm nor hot, neither humid nor dry. There is no wind, but the fog drifts around lazily, obscuring his view of wherever it is that he stands. The table is empty, beaded with water droplets from the vapor in the air.

“I’m glad you could join me,” a booming voice says. It comes from all directions at once, spoken with many mouths instead of just one.

Bucky jumps, peering through the fog to catch a glimpse of the speaker. “Who are you?” he asks warily.

A shadow appears through the fog, approximately the shape of a man, but with no discernable features. It stands motionless, facing him through the mists. “It doesn’t matter who I am,” the voice replies. The figure doesn’t move when it speaks. “Who are you?”

“I am Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says. “Sergeant Bucky Barnes of the 107th.”

“Are you?” the voice asks. “It doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“Who are you?” Bucky asks again. “Where am I?”

“Those are not the questions you need to be asking.” The figure flickers, like a picture projected from a faulty light bulb. “I’ll ask you again, who are you?”

A gentle _clink_ makes Bucky look down. Sitting on the previously bare table is a framed photograph. He picks it up with two, flesh-and-blood hands, although he hardly registers the change. The picture is of him, grinning in his brand new uniform, only days before he shipped out for England. His arm is wrapped around Steve, who is wearing the same, too-big coat that he wore every day. Steve sports a black eye, courtesy of the fight he had picked earlier that day.

“Who is in that photograph?” the figure asks. Bucky smiles.

“It’s me. Right before I left for England. I wanted to have a picture with my best friend.”

“No it isn’t.”

Bucky looks back up at the shadowed figure. “What do you mean?”

The figure floats closer, but remains shrouded in a pearly haze. “You don’t know those people.”

“Yes I do,” Bucky says. He looks back down to see two strangers in the picture. Their faces are blurry, but it’s clear he’s never seen them before. “It’s me and-”

“And who?” the figure asks.

The name has left Bucky’s mind. He searches for it, searches for the person in the photograph, but comes up empty-handed. The frame in his hand turns cold. The picture is unrecognizable.

“You don’t know those people. You don’t know yourself.”

“I do know myself.” The sweet-smelling fog grows thicker, its smooth tendrils gently brushing against his arms. His _arm_. He only has one.

The figure flickers again. “Then who are you?”

“I’m-” He doesn’t know. He can’t remember his name, anything about himself. Has he ever had a name? Has he had a life? He is nothing. No one.

“Exactly,” the figure says. “You don’t know yourself. You don’t know me.”

“Who am I?” He whispers.

The figure steps forwards. The fog dissipates, turning the shadow into flesh. It is a man, his same height, with messy brown hair and the shadow of stubble along his jaw. His eyes are a clear blue, filled with a piercing intensity. The man’s left arm is metal, although its shape is identical to that of a real arm.

“You’re me,” The man says. “And I’m you.”

He steps forward. The man steps forward at the exact same time. “But who are we?” he asks.

“No one.” The man tilts his head to the side. “You are no one.”

He reaches out, watching the man mirror his movements. Their hands grow closer and closer, the temperature dropping sharply. He shivers. Goosebumps appear on his outstretched arm. Their hands meet, a strange spark jumping through his body.

For a moment, he is frozen, fingertips barely brushing those of the mystery man’s opposite him. But then, without warning, the floor drops out from underneath him, as if he was standing on a trapdoor.

The white room is yanked from his vision as he plummets downwards into a black abyss. There seems to be no end, no floor for him to slam into, no jagged rocks to break his fall. He falls and falls, losing all sense of time in the black emptiness.

Желание.

A voice, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, originating from both his mind and the abyss.

Ржавый.

He is no one. He is nothing.

Семнадцать.

The words mean nothing. They can’t mean anything, not to a man with no past.

рассвет.

The words burn as they enter his ears, like acid coating his mind.

Печь.

He is still falling. There is nothing but the fall.

Девять.

His heart stopped beating a long time ago. The only sound in existence is the voice coating his body in its slimy grip.

Доброкачественный.

The darkness is receding, a red light permeating the foul air.

Возвращение домой.

The air stinks of sulfur, growing stronger with every second.

Один.

The wind grows stronger, ripping past his face with murderous intent. The source of the red light appears, a small, brilliant square quickly approaching him.

Грузовой вагон.

The square grows larger and larger. It blinds him, filling his head with angry red light. There is nothing else but the light. It burrows under his skin, worms its way in between his ears until he is nothing but red. The light permeates the very essence of his being. He is nothing. There is nothing.

With a jolt, he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am honestly having so much fun writing this and i really hope you enjoyed this chapter! i don't think i'll be writing chapter summaries from now on because they're so segmented, but we'll see. i can't wait to write more!


	4. the red room

The room is red. The walls, painted red, are illuminated by flickering red lights hanging from the dingy ceiling. Standing against the wall are two soldiers in their fatigues, each with a small red logo embroidered on the shoulder. An IV stand rests in the corner of his vision, its clear plastic tubes dripping a crystal clear liquid into the veins of his arm. His arms have been tied down, as he is sitting upright in a large metal chair.

“Welcome,  _ Soldat _ ,” a voice says. A man steps forwards into his line of sight. The man is tall, with spiky gray hair and severe angles to his face. He is dressed in fatigues as well, but the other soldiers salute him as he walks past. Their commander, then.

“Who are you?” he asks. His voice is lower than he expected it to be.

“My name is Mikhail Petrov,” the man answers. He holds a red leather notebook in his hand, one with a black star imprinted on it. “I am in charge of the Winter Soldier program.”

“What is that?” His brain feels cloudy. There are a million words and pictures floating around his mind, but all of them are hidden behind a thick dusty veil. He tries to remember something,  _ anything _ , but comes up short. His mind is blank.

“It is a program named after you, the Winter Soldier.” Petrov opens his notebook as he talks, making notes after every sentence. “That is your name, that is who you are. You will do whatever I say, no questions asked. You answer to me, and only me. Is that understood?”

“No.” He tilts his head. There is something pushing at the back of his skull. His name. His past. There’s something he doesn’t know, he’s sure of it. “That’s not my name.”  
Petrov snaps the notebook shut. He walks to the wall adjacent to the chair, where a row of switches hangs attached to the wall. Wires run from the panel, across the ceiling, to the head of the metal chair. A large warning sign hangs above the panels, a picture of a lightning bolt flashing across yellow plastic.

“You are the Winter Soldier,” Petrov says. “No one else. Nothing more.” He rests his hand on the largest switch. “And you would do well to remember that.”

Petrov flips the switch.

The light of a thousand suns erupts behind his eyes, blinding him, setting his brain on fire. A terrible crackling fills his ears, white hot lava filling his skull.  _ The Winter Soldier. _ The veil in his mind is obliterated, along with everything behind it, the wave of hellfire sweeping everything out of its path.  _ No one else. _ An agonizing emptiness fills the space between his ears, a burning sterility that replaces his every thought.  _ Nothing more. _

The light blinks out.

Slowly, the room fades back into view. Sweat trickles down his forehead onto his nose, where it drips onto his heaving chest. A man in fatigues steps forwards into his line of sight. He is tall, with a severe jawline and pointed gray hair. Two soldiers standing across from him salute as the man steps past them. Must be their commander.

“Do you remember me?” the man asks.

He shakes his head.

“My name is Mikhail Petrov.” The man flips a notebook open. It is red with a black star. “I am in charge of the Winter Soldier program, named after you, the first Winter Soldier. Do you understand?”

“No. Who am I?”

Petrov looks at him with piercing eyes. “You are the Winter Soldier. You will be a gift to humanity, as long as you do exactly what I say, when I say it. You answer to me, and only me. Is that clear?”

Something flickers in the back of his mind. This isn’t right. He’s been here before.

“I’ve been here before,” he says. His throat is raw.

Petrov sighs, walking over to a row of switches. A large warning sign hangs over them, with a picture of a lightning bolt marring the yellow plastic. “You are the Winter Soldier, a covert operative directly under my command. You are a ghost. No one else. Nothing more.”

Petrov flips the switch.

A blast brighter than a thousand bombs ignites in his skull, wiping every thought from his mind. An image flickers before his eyes, a masked man with a metal arm, holding up a gun.  _ The Winter Soldier. _ The image flickers out.  _ A ghost. _ Russian words filter through his ears, infiltrating the agonizing blankness of his mind.  _ No one else. _ Everything is eradicated. The universe is reduced to the blinding bolts of pain shooting across time.  _ Nothing more. _

The light blinks out.

He is strapped to a chair in the center of a large red room. The walls are red, illuminated by red lights. Two soldiers stand in front of him, each wearing fatigues with a red logo embroidered on the shoulder. They salute at a man who walks into sight.

“My name is Mikhail Petrov,” the man says. He is tall, with gray hair and a hooked nose. “Do you remember me?”

“No.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Who am-”

“You know who you are,” Petrov interrupts. “Say it.”

“The…” his voice trails off. It’s at the tip of his tongue, he knows it. “I’m the…” He comes up blank.

Petrov nods, seemingly disappointed. He walks to a large panel of switches, which hang underneath a large yellow warning sign with an angry black lightning bolt plastered across it. “You are the Winter Soldier,” he says. The words seem familiar. “You are an assassin, an agent working under my command. You are a ghost. To the world, you do not yet exist. You are the Winter Soldier. No one else. Nothing more.”

Petrov flips the switch.

A violent flash erupts behind his eyes, erasing everything from existence. A loud ringing permeates the angry white void, filling the universe with its piercing sound.  _ The Winter Soldier. _ Ten words drill into his mind, the same ten words he’s heard trillions of times before.  _ No one else. _ The light grows stronger, annihilating everything in its path. It consumes him, until he ceases to exist.  _ Nothing more. _

The light blinks out.

He is in a room. The walls are red, the ceiling is red, the floor is red. The symbols on the soldiers’ fatigues are red. Even he is red, the red bulbs on the ceiling illuminating him with their scarlet light. A man steps into his line of sight. Tall, with gray hair and stern eyes.

“Do you remember me?” the man asks.

“Yes.” Although his mind is blank, it is clear. He knows this man.

“What is my name?”

“Mikhail Petrov.”

“Good.” Petrov answers. “Who are you?

“I’m the-” He furrows his brow. He knows this. He has to. “The Win-” He can’t find the other syllables. His tongue won’t cooperate.

Petrov sighs. “You are the Winter Soldier,” he says, walking towards a row of switches on the wall. “You are an assassin and covert operative directly under my command. You are a ghost. No one else. Nothing more.”

Petrov's hand comes to rest on a switch underneath a large yellow warning sign. It has a crude drawing of a man getting struck by a massive black lightning bolt covering the plastic.  _Warning,_ it reads.  _Danger of electrocution._

Petrov flips the switch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i know this one was a little short (also odd) but i really really wanted to update so i kept it short. it's past midnight for me so this is super late but oh well. let me know what you think!


	5. the psychologist

Hours become days, become weeks, become months. He knows that much. But every time he begins to understand who he is, what his purpose is, he has to start over. The red room is all he knows. The same two minutes become his life. The same men, the same salute, the same yellow plastic sign hanging over the same row of switches. The same questions, the same lecture, the same flash of white light. Has he been here before?

“What is your name?” Petrov asks, staring coldly.

“I’m the-” his breath comes in shuddering, exhausted gasps. “The-”

Petrov closes the red notebook. He walks towards the row of switches hanging on the wall underneath a large yellow sign.

_ Warning. Danger of electrocution. _

He’s read those words before.

Petrov reaches out towards the largest switch, but his gloved hands can hardly brush it before he is interrupted.

“Wait!”

Petrov turns to him. “Something you’d like to say?”

“I know it,” he begs. “Just let me think.”

“Prove it.” Petrov reopens the notebook, his cold eyes glittering with interest.

“I’m-” He squints his eyes shut, racking his scattered brain for the words. “I’m the-”

Petrov’s hand reaches out for the switch.

“I’m the Winter Soldier!” he bursts out. “I’m the Winter Soldier.” His voice is quieter the second time, as the realization washes over him.  _ He knows who he is. _

Petrov smiles, scribbling down notes. “Very good. What is your purpose here?”

“I’m a covert operative for you,” he says. The more he speaks, the more natural it becomes, until the words flowing out of him feel right, feel like he’s known them forever. Which he has. “I’m a ghost. I don’t exist. No one else.”

The pen scratching stops. Petrov is staring at him. There is something else, he knows it. The room is silent.

“Nothing more,” he breathes. Deep inside of him, something clicks into place. Finally, he understands. He knows who he is.

Petrov signals to one of the guards standing by the door, who hands him a small syringe. Without hesitation, Petrov walks over to the metal chair and jams it in the Soldier’s arm. He presses down, emptying out the clear tube. The world immediately turns hazy, objects and faces blurring together into a singular pinkish mass.

“You did well,” Petrov’s voice echoes. “I’ll see you again soon.”

The world fades to black.

 

He wakes up when he is slammed onto a table, arms and legs quickly strapped down with metal cuffs. His arm pinches as an IV is roughly forced into his vein by a stern-looking scientist with a stubble-covered jaw. Standing around the perimeter of the room are more guards, all in identical black and red fatigues. Most hold guns, while others hold devices he doesn’t recognize.

“What is this?” he mumbles, trying to clear his head. No one responds.

The scientist attaches a bag of blue-tinted liquid to the other end of the IV tube. He taps it twice, then steps back to observe.

“Where am I?” he asks, pulling fruitlessly against the restraints. His arm starts to feel cold, spreading outwards from where the IV tube drips its toxic solution into his veins. “What are you doing to me?” The cold grows, like a slimy parasite taking control of his exhausted muscles. Everywhere it touches, his joints lock, limbs made too weak to function. It reaches his jaw, and he is silenced, mouth forced firmly shut. Little by little, it consumes his body until he is completely paralyzed. His mind is still hazy, still unwilling to comprehend his surroundings.

“Relax.” A light female voice brushes his ears, so out of place in the dark room. A pale woman with a curly brown ponytail and midnight black eyes steps into his view. She walks towards him, wearing a tailored black suit that provides a sharp contrast to the rough-hewn faces of the soldiers. The men in the room keep their gazes carefully pointed straight ahead. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’m only a psychologist.”

All he can do is follow her with his eyes. She makes her way to the table where she lays a hand on his icy arm. Her face is unreadable as she stares down at him analytically.

           “This is just a precaution,” she explains, waving vaguely towards the IV stand. “I’m going to do something very simple in one moment. All I’m going to do is read out ten words. All you have to do is listen. You know these words. You know what they mean.”

The world is getting hazy. Her dark eyes bore into his, an unbroken stare that hypnotizes him, drowns everything else out. “When I say the words, you are going to do exactly what I say,” she orders him. “You will want to do what I tell you. You will not stop until you do.”

Time slows to a stop as he stares into her eyes. Their dark intensity swallows him whole, and he finds himself hanging on her every last word. He will do whatever she asks. And she knows it. She opens a red leather notebook and gently clears her throat.

“ Желание.” His body relaxes, mind calming. “ Ржавый.  Семнадцать.” With every word that she speaks, a wave of serenity passes through his spine. The fog in his brain slowly dissipates. “Рассвет. Печь.” Her voice fills his ears until his whole word hangs on her every syllable. “Девять.” The ice in his veins starts to melt and he slowly begins to regain control of his limbs. “Доброкачественный.” His knuckles crack as he bends his fingers. Her voice is like honey, sweet and enticing. “Возвращение домой. Один.” He is coming back to life, frozen body reawakening and muddled mind becoming clear. “Грузовой вагон.” All of his awareness focuses down on the woman standing next to him, to her dark brown eyes and silky voice.

“ _ Soldat _ ?” she asks him.

The words that come out of his mouth are not his. They are programmed words, words he has no choice but to say.

“Ready to comply.” And as soon as he speaks it, it becomes true. He will do anything she says. Anything.

“Get up,” she orders him. The metal cuffs are unhooked, and he gets to his feet, legs still unsteady from the blue liquid. She gives him a once-over, and he realizes that at some point, he had been put in skintight black pants and a tunic. She gestures for him to follow her, which he does. The armed soldiers in the room follow him, guns carefully trained on his back.

The psychologist brings him to a small room, dark around the edges but brightly illuminated in the center by a single, low-hanging bulb. Under the bulb sits a small metal table, upon which rests a pistol, unloaded, next to a solitary gray bullet. The psychologist turns to face him with a calculating expression on her face.

“You must be willing to do whatever I tell you to do, kill whoever I tell you to kill. Is that clear?” Her eyes are stern, analyzing his every move.

“Yes,” he answers. His face is blank. He will do anything she asks.

She nods, stepping past him towards the door, where a large switch hangs on the wall. She flips it, and he flinches involuntarily, but all it does is illuminate the rest of the room. He looks across, past the table, where a man is kneeling on the ground. The man has a sack over his head and is wearing nothing but a pair of gray shorts. Angry red welts stand out against his clammy, pale skin.

“This man is an enemy of HYDRA,” the psychologist says. She walks towards the shivering man, heels clicking sharply against the floor. “He was caught attempting to steal classified files from our science division a few days ago. He has seen too much. So, he must die.” She rips the sack off his head to reveal a young man with light brown hair and hazel eyes, whose face is bruised and swollen.

The psychologist points at the table. “Load the gun and bring it here.”

He obeys, slipping the bullet smoothly into its chamber and clicking it shut. He walks over to stand in front of the man, who is squinting through the bright lights.

“Now, kill him,” the psychologist orders.

He raises his arm, pointing the gun at the prisoner’s head. But before he can pull the trigger, a choked voice escapes the man’s mouth.

“Bucky?”

He pauses, staring down at the bruised stranger. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he says coldly.

The man laughs weakly. “Man, we all thought you were dead! Just get me out of here, let’s go!” The smile on his face fades as he notes the lack of response. “Come on, Bucky, it’s me. It’s Hodge. Gilmore Hodge, from the 107th.”

He pulls the trigger. The bullet rips through the prisoner’s chest, spraying blood across the cement floor. The man collapses to the ground, glazed eyes brimming with confusion. As he hits the floor, a breath escapes his mouth.

“ _ Bucky?” _

And then he realizes. He knows this man. Somehow, he knows this man. And he killed him.

He frantically rushes to the body, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood gushing from the ruined chest. But his metal arm keeps sliding and the wound is too big for one hand to cover.

“What are you doing?” the psychologists asks sternly. She sounds angry, disappointed.

“I knew him,” he says, feeling the blood coating his arms. “I knew him, we have to do something.”

She doesn’t move, just pulls a syringe from the inside pocket of her jacket.

“Please, just do something!” he begs. His metal arm has been rendered useless, too slippery to keep a grip on the man’s gaping sternum. “We have to save him.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” she says. She crouches next to him, placing a hand on his metal shoulder. “You did just what I said. You did perfectly.”

She jabs the needle into his neck, emptying its contents into his veins. He collapses into the pool of blood, feeling his vision fading away. The blood coats him, soaking through his skin and into his soul. As the world turns to an empty darkness, he sees the psychologist standing up, brushing her suit jacket off. She turns to the guards, gesturing towards his limp form.

“Put him in cryo,” she says. “Give him a year, wipe him, and start over. He’s not ready.”

For the thousandth time, everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry it's been so long since i uploaded! i had some serious writer's block and this chapter sort of felt like it was dragging along. don't worry, though, i promise things are about to get a LOT more interesting from here on out!


	6. cryofreeze (interlude)

A familiar white fog surrounds him, obscures his vision. The same small wooden table sits in front of him, a broken picture frame littering its top. The frame is empty, but the shards of glass are everywhere, coating both the table and the ground.

“It’s been a while,” a voice says from behind him. He turns to see a tall blond man with broad shoulders smiling gently at him. “Come and walk with me.”

He obeys, walking next to the man with the star on his chest and shield on his back. They wander through the fog, following some invisible path that only the blue-eyed man seems to know.

“It’s nice here, Buck,” the man says amicably. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

“I don’t-” His throat is dry. “I don’t know you.”

“Sure you do!” the man says. His face transforms, hair becoming darker, eyes a little wider-set. His voice becomes deeper, blue outfit changing into a tan army uniform. “Sergeant James Barnes, reporting for duty. Shipping out for Europe first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t know you,” he says, quieter this time.

The man reverts to how he looked before, baby blue eyes looking at him innocently. “You’re going to be here a long time, Buck. They weren’t happy with how things went last time.”

“Why do you keep calling me Buck?” he asks. “That’s not my name.”

“Maybe it isn’t now, but it has been,” the man says cryptically. “And it will be later. But the past and the future don’t matter. All that matters is now.”

“Who are you?” he asks.

“A friend,” the man says. “My name is Steve.”

“Steve,” he repeats. “Where am I? Who am I?”

“You?” Steve answers. “You’re here. Wherever this may be. But  _ you _ , you’re frozen in an underground lab.”

“You don’t make any sense,” he says.

A bench appears on the ground, a gentle wooden structure, worn down by time. The two men sit on it, the taller one bringing his shield to rest on the ground.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Steve says. “Before they wake you up.”

“What is it?”

Steve looks at him, and he realizes that Steve’s eyes are not blue. They are galaxies, they are universes, they are multitudes. “You are going to do some very bad things. But you won’t have a choice, and you need to accept that. You need to give in, stop fighting. Just for now.”

“Stop fighting?” he asks. “I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be fighting.”

“No one,” Steve says. “Not yet. Do what they say until the time comes for you to wake up. You’ll know when the time is right. You won’t be able to miss it. But until then, be who they want you to be. Be the Winter Soldier.”

“How?” he asks. “How can I be something that I’m not?”

“It won’t be hard. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“I don’t even know you.” He looks into the infinite eyes that are filled to the brim with gentle understanding.

Steve smiles. “You will. However, I’m about to do something very stupid, and then I won’t be around for a while. But I’ll be back. And then you’ll wake up. And we’ll face this together.” The soft white light begins to dim. A low rumble shakes the ground, and Steve picks up his shield, unfazed.

“What’s happening?” he asks Steve.

“They’re waking you up.” He straps the shield to his back, rolling his shoulders. “You won’t remember any of this, but I’ll be with you the whole time. Be the Winter Soldier. It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

“Don’t go,” he blurts out. He jumps to his feet, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Not yet, I’m not ready.”

Steve smiles sadly. He folds the shorter man into his arms, embracing him tightly. “I’ll see you around, Buck. But you have to try to remember this for me.”

“What?” he breathes, and is surprised to find that his eyes are damp with tears.

Steve steps back. Small teardrops hang from his golden eyelashes. “I’m with you to the end of the line, pal. Always will be.”

Steve dissolves into dust, the memory of his kind smile the only hint that he was ever there.

“Wait.” He looks around frantically. “Wait, I’m not ready to go, I’m not ready to go back to them!”

The darkening fog offers no response.

“Don’t make me go,” he begs. Tears are falling down his face as he looks for Steve, for the man who held the universe in his eyes. “Please, don’t make me go.”

The fog grows thicker, darker, until he is shrouded in a glacial, pitch-black haze. He shivers, tears freezing on his face as the air congeals around him, turning his body into a block of ice. The air turns to snow in his lungs, his arctic surroundings consuming him.

_ Don’t make me go. _

The unforgiving fog swallows him, paralyzes him, makes him drowsier and drowsier until he can no longer keep his eyes open.

_ Please don’t make me go. _

He sinks to the ground, to the rock hard stone that leeches all remaining warmth from his bones. As the world flickers out, he swears he sees a smiling man hovering above him.

_ I’m with you till the end of the line. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i really just uploaded twice in a day i'm proud of me. also enjoy some stucky content before everything falls apart again.


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